


Normality is a Paved Road

by blackcricket



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Unvierse, Cherik - Freeform, FIx It, Flower meanings, In Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, X-men Family, x-men first class references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9454679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcricket/pseuds/blackcricket
Summary: "-he always liked those sort of things. Meanings within meanings. Even now he likes to puzzle out information, why do you think the library is his favourite room in the drafty old place?"





	1. What lies here. . .

**Author's Note:**

> Normality is a paved road,  
> Comfortable to walk but no flowers grow.
> 
> -Vincent van Gogh

It is late morning when Charles finishes waking up from a vaguely disturbing dream about a small, red-haired girl and pyramids. Instead of going downstairs to where breakfast was surely demolished hours ago he sits down at his messy desk sleepily.

He stretches once, then freezes, back cricking with the aborted motion because something is wrong. The crucial documents from last night still lie there, blue ink pen awaiting his signature but atop them rest. . .a row of flowers?

Charles rubs his temple but the flowers stubbornly remain. They are real and he has no idea why they are here, specifically on his desk. Raven wouldn't give him flowers, it's a rule between them that was established after. . .the debacle-they-never-speak-about. Sean, Alex and Hank know nothing about his fondness for the bulbs or the horrible memories he was living through yesterday-

'Perhaps there is a meaning behind them,' his ever-working mind supplies cheerfully. 'They are laid out in a specific order after all. . .'

Charles, in a purposefully forgotten pit of his lonely, touch-starved heart wishes that were truth so badly. However he shakes his head in bemusement at his own, optimistic fantasies. The likelihood of anyone asking Raven about how best he'd like to be wooed (a childhood conversation she has, to this day, never let him forget exists) is pointedly nonexistent. Therefore this must be, an accident.

Nothing more.

 

Charles rises, unwilling -for the moment- to touch the brightly blooming petals and ruin their lovely tableau.

He makes for the door, still distracted until he spies two books, lying on the ground beside Erik's armchair.

It is in that moment of breathless time that Charles makes a decision, probably a foolish one considering his penchant for those but one that nonetheless comes from his eternally hopeful heart. 

He picks up the books gently and retreats back to his desk.

 

The flowers are a maelstrom of colours and sizes. Ranging from bright and vibrant, to pale and delicate. Charles suspects that these flowers voice meanings unsaid. Whether that assumption is made through fear or unwilling hope is yet to be seen, whether the giver intended such a thing is also. . . unclear. Leaving Charles to breathe in and out steadily for a moment, trying fruitlessly to get his head back under control and not project his flood of emotions onto the boys and Raven downstairs.

He leans down to scrutinise the flower farthest to his left, starting the way he would read a book. With utmost attention and blue orbs focussed entirely upon the small plant as if about to read its nonexistent mind. It is a yellow flower, so bright as to remind him of the x-men suits Hank created for a journey to Cuba . . .

He straightens, pushing away the rising tide of remembered pain with a sharp dig to the instinctive well of curiosity that resides in the forefront of his mind. Head cocked to one side he picks up the first heavy book and leafs through its sketches. Searching. . . searching. . . there!

Apparently from what the book says, (a nice, old copy of "Flowers and their Meanings: the second edition") this first bloom is Acacia.

The meaning; 'A love concealed' weighs heavily upon his heart and he closes a few mental shields he hasn't bothered with in months of living at the mansion. Feeling inexplicably wary, as if the flower can discern emotions as easily as he can thoughts. Charles stares at the small petals for a endless moment then he reaches, almost frantically for the second book. It says, in a roundabout way that the intention is to become more than friends.

Facing this new, unexpected complication Charles craves a hot cup of tea but refuses to get up else he never return. He is unfortunately aware that it is one of his many avoidance tendencies. Instead he searches out Sean telepathically and sends him the polite request before refocussing.

The next one he knows, it is a Chrysanthemum. It used to be Raven's favourite, he once requested a entire flowerbed of the garden to be filled with them so that he could pick her fresh blooms every night. Now they represent a melancholy childhood, one unable to be revisited. It means familial support, loyalty. . .cheerfulness. And also a chosen, wonderful friend.

Charles bites his lip, despite all the connections he can easily make to Raven in his mind regarding this flower, it is not her choice these days. That is the orchid; exotic and dangerous, the narcissus; love of the self, or the evening primrose. Feminine and made consciously unlike her child counterpart's whimsical fancies.

He taps the desk impatiently. If only he had managed to remember these flowers -or at the very least their names- from his childhood wanderings through the mansion's gardens. That would make this task pass by so much quicker and the meaning of all this would finally be revealed!

In the second book he finds the next flower -the first book having failed him dismally. It is an Anemone, a purple blossom full of dark colouring and inevitably, symbolism reflecting that. The greek story detailed in the book talked of a grieving Aphrodite for a deceased Adonis. Of being forsaken.

Charles struggles with the emotions warring in his mind, on one hand the curiosity was slowly murdering him but on the other. . .did he want to finish? What if, what if this was a farewell. Or worse simply a bunch of flowers picked by the boys with no thought to meanings and insinuations.

Charles stubbornly ignores the fact that the boys wouldn't have picked the flowers in the first place, having no interest in them and began to pace his study nervously before reseating himself with a new surge of determination filling his veins.

Delicate and fine-veined the Bluebell is found easily. It looks as if it was picked that very morning, fresh dew having collected along the desk beneath it -thankfully without reaching the crucial documents- and Charles allows himself a moment to wipe it away with a cardigan sleeve. It means. . .humility.

Charles stiffens, in every sense of linguistics it ideally meant, 'Forgive me' but who would rather send him flowers than speak with him about-

Erik.

 

Charles scans the row of flowers again, remembers each meaning, each unrealised plea and finds himself curling up in his chair, hand over gaping mouth.

Erik.

The name resounds in his mind, unbearably loud and close and dear. Unbearably silent with a mind closed off by that bloody helmet! Suddenly Charles is sure, beyond doubt and weak protestation that this is his doing but why. . .

He turns back to the last two flowers and picks up his books again, searching the sketches with a wild desperation evident in the lines of his face.

Finally, near the middle Charles discovers the flower's identity. He stares at the blooming stem in growing bewilderment. Nestled atop his blotter rests a single Iris. The symbol of faith, hope, wisdom and valour.

It's magnificent and he doesn't know what to do but go on. To find the last flower and finally put this whole, absurd quest -undertaken across a desk within two books in hand- to rest.

Charles ignores the voice in his mind that speaks of loneliness, ignores the voice that draws hope into his cracked heart.

He has gotten quite good at that over the years.

The last, a little, starshaped white thing is certainly not found in the garden's -neglected as they are Charles doubts he could find anything in the mess of green beds. The book says it is Myrtle.

The Hebrew emblem of marriage


	2. A shout to the universe

"Erik!?"

 

The telepathic shout causes Sean to nearly scream, that particular disaster averted only thanks to Raven's hand clamped down over his mouth. Startling Alex bad enough that he tackles Hank to the ground in a fit of protective instincts.

All four stare at the ceiling and the lone suspended lamp, swaying from side to side.

The boys turn, as one, to glare at Raven.

 

"What did you do." Hank asks blandly as he pushes Alex from off him where the other boy still lies, looking uncharacteristically worried.

"Nothing!" She insists. Sean poking her in the side causes a squeal to join the declaration but it isn't until Alex fixes her with the patented 'Shark Glare no.25' that she stops nibbling her blue lip and whispers, "I may have. . .talked to Erik a few days ago. But that doesn't mean I did this!" She gestures around chaotically as if to empathise her noninvolvement.

"What did you say to him though? Come on!" Sean asks, his face warring between an expression of mischief and someone-is-trying-to-push-me-out-a-window-again-help!

"Just, stuff about our childhood."

 

The boys stare, flabbergasted, at her. Their expressions more dumbfounded than when she started walking around the house naked and quoting mutant supremacy ideals.

 

Alex is the first to recover his voice, "You did what?"

Hank is running his large hands through his hair, face equal parts nervous -as if he fears someone will start lighting the kitchen on fire (again)- and intrigued. That persistent curiosity is the scientist in him coming out. Always wanting to know how the situation evolved toward this scenario.

"I didn't think he'd do anything with it!" She protests defensively.

"Well what did you expect Erik to do? Leave for Sidney Australia after learning such sensitive information, that clearly the Professor didn't want to be spread around." He growls the last few words, apparently having picked up some mannerisms from Hank in the vocal department.

"I thought it would be good for them, that they could resolve their differences and maybe. . ." She trails off, looking resigned and dismally afflicted.

"Raven," Hank says, "you can't fix this. None of us can. Erik left and the Professor. . ." he seems at a loss for words but shakes the momentary hesitation off. "We all want them to resolve things but it is not going to happen."

Raven's yellow eyes flash with angry denial. "You can't know that Hank."

"I do think it's the most likely scenario however. You shouldn't keep trying to push them together. The Professor, he especially can't keep dealing with you talking about Erik at meals-"

"Yeah, he gets that look on his face."

 

They all fall silent. Every one of them knows that look. It is the most common expression Charles wears recently. They've discussed it and know he probably doesn't realise that it lingers in the edges of his halfhearted smiles and stifled encouragements. The worse part however is how rare Charles' own laughter has become in comparison.

They all know and hate that Erik took that symbol of effortless joy from their Professor without a thought.

The boys will never forgive him that betrayal though Raven hopes, hourly, for reconcilliation. These days she is like Charles in that regard. Wandering around, having gathered up all the fallen vestiges of faith he used to carry atop his sweater-clad shoulders, lingering in his British accent after a cup of inevitable tea, she watches them both. Searching for some key that will open the box, some forgotten puzzle piece that just needs to be slotted in right there, and suddenly voila!

Hank views it as an impossibility; something which as a mutant he is terribly familiar with but also something he cannot hold due to his nature as a scientist.

Alex guards the four of them best as he can, reaches out for the Professor daily but he is not Erik, and has no armour to guard against broken hearts and shattered eyes.

Sean dreams of days when Erik was home, when the mansion felt like it fit around them properly. Not too big or too large, like now, but rather, open and warm and full because they were all together.

In those past days, the mansion was not a mausoleum of remembrances it was simply home.


	3. Waiting for assurance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try to catch the J.M. Barrie reference I accidentally made.

Erik has been waiting since dawn. Logically he knows Charles won't get up till late -he can't bear the mornings- but Erik is a creature of habit. And he is quite willing to wait for any small sign that Charles has received his. . . for lack of a better word, message, as long as is necessary.

At least that was what Erik told himself. By now however, the waiting has become a bit strenuous to his mental state.

After Raven told him, as covertly as she could manage -without Charles' hearing- from a park bench in town, he had formed a plan.

First: research.

Secondly: convince Raven to deliver the compiled message since Charles will know if Erik stepped a single toe onto the grounds of the Xavier estate.

There is no definite third step though Erik has rifled through many in these past hours of boredom. They range from metallic sculptures, to mind melding like that Vulcan does with his captain in Star Trek (the very basis of which is an impossibly strange invention of the media doubtlessly but one which, could potentially have merit with a telepath).

Erik doesn't know for sure if his plan will work, as it is he's becoming less sure by each moment that passes. Questions like, 'What if Charles doesn't agree? What if he misunderstands? What if that Moira comes back?' (never mind that Hank monitored her returning to the CIA personally after her memories were taken by Charles) plague him incessantly no matter how many breathing exercises he does to combat the rising panic.

The sole thing that does help is thinking about Charles. Erik learned, over the first few weeks of their acquaintance never to underestimate Charles Xavier. He is most definitely one of the most complex beings on this planet, a conundrum wrapped in British manners and a fondness for challenging chess games. He is- 

Awake.

 

Erik can feel the old watch Charles wears without fail moving around Charles' rooms, then into the study and -there.

It was near the desk. Pens and chair; all metal surrounding the watch and thus, surrounding Charles.

Charles was very still for a while. Initially he rose and made to leave the room -throwing Erik's heart into his throat with pure unbridled fear- then stopped and scoped something up from the ground beside Erik's chair (he could feel the metal he'd laced into the frame, warm and familiar) before reseating himself at the desk.

Erik settles down, leaning against a tree to wait. Hopefully it wouldn't be long now. Charles always was a quick reader. . .

 

"Erik!?"

He jumps, literally into the air, half preparing to flee and never return to Westchester and half preparing to murder anyone who stops him from approaching Charles.

Erik isn't entirely sure of his welcome but he flies to Charles' study assuming that whatever happens at least he would have posed the question. At least it wouldn't linger in his blood on cold nights, tangled up with forbidden images of things he could never have.

 

Unexpected in comparison to his negative predictions he finds the window open. A flushed Charles helps him clamber inside and then strides directly to their set of comfortable armchairs. Each eternally facing the other, a chess set poised to play between them, one white pawn extended across the squares.

Erik stares, bewildered by the tableau. He had anticipated shouting, anger, sundry amounts of pain and disgust flung across his heart and an instant refusal. Instead he receives. . .a familiar picture of home. Of something they had forged a connection over.

Erik tears his eyes away from the chessboard and stares, grey eyes painfully confused at Charles but the telepath only smiles, warm and as inviting as the first time they'd met. He motions to the armchair opposite his own.

Erik carefully sits. Feeling considerably unhinged by the entire situation and unsure why that is, considering it was he who made the first move with the flowers. It was him who instigated this meeting and now. . .the answer lay with Charles.

Meeting blue eyes with grey Erik experienced a lightning moment of clarity, washing away the disconcerted emotions which had arisen during the long wait outside. He had done everything so far and now was unable to rise to action because there was no more to accomplish. He was left awaiting an answer he could never be sure of.

And yet, at the knowledge that the decision lay in the hands of the person who knows him best, who brings him out of rage and insanity to the welcome light of a family. . .that settles him as nothing else this morning could.

Erik moves his knight to meet the pawn in the bare battleground between their two, separate armies. Grey eyes focussing on the square-lined board he realises with pride that this time it had not been Charles stretching out a hand, calling him back and up into something larger.

It had been Erik making the decision to seek this, to risk being turned away.

 

Chess pieces fight far more neatly than regular soldiers, knights and rooks and bishops toppling each other easily in a pattern neither man involved was able to forget.

Yet a silence can only last so long.

 

"Charles. . ."

"Yes, old friend?" came the reply, eyes glimmering with a light Raven had insisted was vanished forever until he returned home to the mansion.

Erik looks down at the board, toys with the black queen for a moment then sets her back down neatly and faces his friend.

"Will you give me an answer?"

This time it was Charles' turn to look down, eyes unfocussing as he runs slender fingers across the tops of their remaining black and white pieces littering the board.

Without looking up he speaks nonchalantly, "I think that depends on whether you're going to come home and stay or not."

Erik stares at the other man bewildered. Surely he couldn't be. . . . Did he truly mean. . . .

"Of course Charles!" He cries, unsure whether to deny the insinuation that he wouldn't want to stay or the other one concerning his 'running from making emotional connections' tendency.

In the long run it didn't matter because Charles grins and stands gracefully. Leaving the chess game half finished though the twinkle in his blue eyes promises it would be returned to.

Erik follows, unsure what exactly was happening in regards to them but knowing that he unmistakably had a new home in any case. That he was welcome despite all he'd done against them. . .

It was as he was musing over this new unanticipated development that Charles launches himself at Erik and the man found himself with an armful of enthusiastically hugging telepath.

'I've missed you old friend.'

The words spoken inside his mind were familiar and worn. Like his black turtleneck sweater they felt soothing, a balm to his frenzied nerves.

After a few moments spent simply savouring the feel of warmth, (and home and Charles) Erik was struck with a question, ". . .what about the children?"

Charles laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done. (Though I do rather want to write about the kids reaction to Erik's proposal. . .)
> 
> Perhaps a sequel is in order eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by several Hanahanki fics I read over the past few days.
> 
> Don't ask why.


End file.
